Snowflake
by Demented Inu
Summary: Some say that no two snowflakes are exactly alike. HarryRon, HarryDraco.


The snow drifted down from the skies as Ron made his way across the street. The bitter cold bit at his skin, and he rubbed at his arms in a futile attempt to warm himself.

Some say that no two snowflakes are exactly alike. They all looked the same to him: small, pale, insignificant. He caught one on his tongue and let it melt in his mouth, a small pool of bacteria and germs. They were all the same in the end.

He went up to the door of the small house and knocked, his knuckles rapping against cold wood. He waited for a moment when he heard footsteps, rocking on his heels like a crazy person, and the door eventually opened, revealing a thin man in round glasses.

"Oh, hey Ron," Harry said. "Come inside, you look cold."

Ron gave a curt nod and stepped into the warmth of the house. The lights were at the perfect level of brightness, making him tired, and the colors of the house intrigued him: dark reds, mostly, with tints of green here and there. Colors that, to anyone else's eyes, would be insignificant, unimportant, but he was trained to notice things that other's didn't, and knew the color scheme was anything but accidental.

His jacket dripped with melting snow, leaving small puddles on the carpet. He shrugged it off of his shoulders and let Harry hang it on the coat hook in the corner.

"I'm late," he said simply, looking at one of the photographs on the wall. Christmas, a million years ago when they were at the Burrow, wrestling for the last box of Fizzing Whizbees. Harry had still been his then, still carefree and Ron was able to fit him in the crook of his arms, thin shoulders pressed against his chest. It was such a long time ago, but Ron could still remember winning that particular tousle, holding Harry to the floor and laughing, saying, "Say uncle."

Harry shrugged. "Doesn't matter." He paused, and ran a hand through his hair, a sure sign that he was nervous. Ron wondered for a moment if Harry still smelled the same, like grass and dirt, like those long afternoons when they would play Quidditch together in the backyard of the Burrow. "I ordered Chinese takeaway. I didn't think you'd mind."

Ron shook his head. "No, not really." Nothing mattered to him anymore, only the fact that he wasn't able to press his face into Harry's sweater and inhale all the years he missed, hug Harry tightly to him as if he could squeeze six years' time back into him. "Is he…?"

"Bedroom. I think he's getting changed."

Ron nodded, his head pounding. The tension pressed on him from all sides and he took a deep breath, deep enough to hurt his lungs.

He wanted to know. He wanted to understand what had made Harry change his mind so suddenly, what had made him run off with the person who had taken away all that Ron had ever wanted.

"Are you happy?" he asked instead.

Harry looked at him, eyes violently green in the warm light of the room. "Of course I am," he replied, with a little discomfort to his voice. "Aren't you?"

Ron looked to the ground, and saw the toes of his sneakers, the ones that Harry had bought him months ago. "I like Chinese takeaway," he said plainly, and Harry only nodded, because he understood the meaning behind the words.

"I know." Harry swallowed. "I'm happy this way. I know you don't believe me, but… I am. I'm happy."

Ron closed his eyes wearily. "I just… I thought you were happy, before. With me."

Harry just looked down, imitating Ron's own nervous habit.

"I thought I was, too."

Ron sighed. "I probably shouldn't stay. I don't really feel very good."

Harry looked at him sadly, green eyes reflecting all of the pain that resided in Ron's heart. "But you just got here."

"I should go. Don't let me spoil your Christmas."

"But…"

Ron wouldn't hear it; in a flurry of frustration and anger, he left the house and stormed outside, leaving his coat on the hook and feeling his arms break out in gooseflesh. He ran, ran from the truth, ran for a few blocks before stopping and kicking the wall of a building.

He choked back a sob, screamed, and slid down the wall to cry silently.

Damn it. Damn Harry for leaving him like this, damn Malfoy for taking away the one thing that made Ron happy.

Some say that no two snowflakes are exactly alike. They were all the same to him: small, pale, insignificant. Meaningless, like his wrecked life of frustration and desire and passion.

But Harry had made him special.

And now Ron was small again.


End file.
